There is a current trend I’ve been noticing in which popular culture has taken a severe issue with humans. Now, it may be true that plenty of humans have committed unspeakable acts in the past, and continue to do so presently, and those unmentionables will persist long into the future. But so often it seems that the absolute beauty that comes from humans, and the brilliance of their finer moments are brushed aside like petty trash. Some of my best friends are human. Hell, I’m one myself. And I hate to see their contributions overlooked as we tsk tsk ourselves into a self imposed stupor.
Remember the fifties? I don’t. I’m twenty four, dammit. But the literature of the fifties and sixties, when our delicious pulpy modern pop began held the human in a much higher esteem. It was us against the unknown, and the unknown usually had wolfmen from venus or soul sucking slug women from planet x. And we had to remain the ever brilliant, ever human creature up against the darkest recessess of the known universe. Now every last vampire or alien gets to lord haughtily over us “Well we never destroyed a world.”
Avast ye, scurvy moon men! I am but one woman, doing my best to live a pleasent and good exsistence in my short years of consciousness. Not because some awful pop culture crap has goaded me into it, but because I am ecstatic to be human, and I owe it to my race to be as good an example of that race I can possibly be.
In case you were wondering, I am sick of paranormal romance, and public service messages disguised as movies.